New Year, old me. Little old me. Shrinking to fit after spending most of 2019 in the clutches of my shrink & his team. And they want me in rehab to curb my enthusiasm for partying. Truth is, all I wanna do is party & sleep & party some more. In the absence of my loved one, my teenage daughter…who no longer wants me in her life due to my “bipolar disorder & bad behaviour”…I just wanna get high & stay high.
So having decided before Christmas that rehab just isn’t for me, I’m now having second thoughts. What else am I gonna do with my life? Live from one high to the next? Dangling onto sanity with routine meds & my daily yoga practice? Yoga is forever but I gotta get off those fucking meds! Maybe the way forward for me is a spell in rehab. 14 weeks. Off the hook, down on the farm. St. Francis’ Farm. If they’ll have me. Can I kick it? Yes I can.
I guess if they’ll have me in my current state, I’ll be having them. Probably smoking my brains out but otherwise dry as a bone. No sex either. 14 weeks! Fuck me!
Had my first session of the year with my drug addiction counsellor today. Abbey. She’s with me on my refusal to go to rehab. Kavanagh House, where I see her, is about harm reduction not abstinence. Do I want to abstain for 14 weeks with a view to reforming my hedonistic habits? Or just keep on seeing Abbey & resisting the pressure of my psychiatric team? What you resist persists!
My community nurse is calling round to see me in the morning. Tits & arse. Corona the cunt. I’m sick of her weekly check-ins. Nosey bitch. She is insistent upon seeing me regularly until I’m packed off to rehab.
Well on further reflection, maybe – just maybe – it’s time for me to play ball & pack up my losing life for a spell. I won’t be missing much but my beloved Bikram Yoga practice. And my friends, my chosen family. And sex. Plus my iPhone. So long world, hello rehab.
The thought of being surrounded by die hard smokers in treatment is pretty off-putting but I’m surrounded by chainsmokers in my humble abode in the Salvation Army anyway. I’ve got to take it upon myself to kick the nicotine addiction for once & for all. Nothing that a 90 minute acupuncture session with Michelle from Melt in Temple Bar can’t cure, as it has for me before. Right, I’ll make that a priority. Bite the bullet & kick the fags. Only trouble is, that means kicking the ganja too. I think it might take me 14 weeks in rehab to muster the might to say no to marijuana.
Smoking is not lady-like & it’s ageing! So advised a close friend of mine when I told her I was intent on quitting. She sure is right about ageing. Aren’t we all ageing? Why accelerate the ageing process with Goddamned nicotine sticks? I’m feeling my 42 years indeed. And my chainsmoking neighbours only strengthen my resolve to harness my filthy habit & rein it in for good. Rehab should include abstinence from nicotine too, if you ask me. Cross-addicted motherfuckers! Up to the eyeballs in caffeine, nicotine & sugar, no doubt. Is that where I want to be?
After a day of reflection, I’m thinking so. I have nothing to lose but communication with the outside world for the duration. And that shouldn’t do me any harm. I spend way too much of my time on my phone anyway, as do most in this sorry day & age. I have a dependence on alcohol & weed, I don’t deny that. Hell, I’m gonna call Abbey first thing tomorrow & let her know I’ve had a change of heart! Take me away!
Faith In The Ripple Effect 